Not Your Fault, But Mine
by Makebox
Summary: Dean has long known the cruelty that this world has to offer and has been at the receiving end of it many a time. What happens when his Master finally takes it too far and hurts someone who has a status higher than that of a piece of furniture and the FBI gets involved? Will a young profiler be able to help the boy no one else notices? Contains slavery and abuse.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

I run along the path that leads through the forest of lush, green maples. The sun peeking through the leaves every few seconds, warming the back of my neck. Up ahead I can see the bright blue of my brother's sneakers as he jogs the final few meters up to our front door. All the while laughing with the delight that so becomes such a young, happy boy.

"Dean, whoever gets to the fridge first has the rights to the last of the ice cream." He giggles, glancing momentarily back at me to make sure that I get the message.

"I think we both know who that will be." I joke as I pick up speed to convince him that I am not just going down without a fight. Although I think that we both know that I would be willing to give him anything under the sun just to see that carefree smile remain on his face.

Sammy stubbles up the front steps and almost collides with the door in his haste to reach the fridge first, myself bringing up the rear, mere steps behind.

However, the next thing I know, I am sprawled on the floor, having run straight into Sam's back. Having knocked Sam to his knees as well with the force of the blow.

Standing in the middle of our kitchen are two men, in black suits. The men glance down at both us on the floor before turning their gaze to me. The seemingly older of the two is the first to talk.

"Dean and Samuel Winchester?" He asks in a deep voice.

Slowly I nod my head, as a thousand thoughts run through it as to who these men could be and what they could possibly want.

"You are both to come with us, and I want no protests from either of you. Understand?"

I look to Sam, who is looking as if he is about to cry, but do not have time to respond because the men grab both Sam and I by our upper arms and start to drag us out the door and to their separate cars.

"De, help me, De!" Is the last thing I hear from Sam as he is pushed harshly into one car and I, the other.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One **

**Eight Years Later**

Skin looks raw and is mottled red in colour? Check.

Skin is moist and ranges in colour from white to cherry red? Check.

Blisters that contain clear fluid? Check.

Extreme pain? Check.

Congratulations Dean, you are the proud victim of a second-degree burn. I almost chuckled to myself at the thought, almost. I likely would have if it were not for the urgency of which I had to deal with the situation at hand.

As it is, my current state found me kneeling on the bathroom floor with my left arm shoved under the cold flowing water of the bath tub, with the St. John Ambulance first aid book open beside me. Never before had I been so happy about Master's slight hoarding problem.

What was I even talking about? My current situation is nothing, if not my own fault. This all could have been prevented, if only I had remembered to pick up the cigarettes at the store as I was told.

But no, I had let it slip my mind, and now I had three circular burns on my forearm to remind me to not fuck up again. The burns came from Master's one remaining cig, one burn for each package I had been told to pick up. Each held onto my sensitive forearm for what had felt like an eternity as I had cried and begged to be released like the pussy that I am; in reality the whole ordeal was over and done with in under two minutes.

After my punishment Master had left the house in a rage to do what I had not, but not before telling me to clean myself up by the time he got home, or I would get burns for each individual cigarette I had neglected to purchase. It was times like this that I reminded myself how lucky I was to be with Master, and how much worse things could really be. I could be on the streets fending for myself or with a Master who abused for no reason. At least here I had a roof over my head and an owner who only punished me when I deserved it (which was often). Still I cried and begged for mercy when the blows came, and snuck food when he was out, this is how I repaid the man who had taken me in out of the goodness of his heart. I truly was as greedy and spoiled as he told me I was.

I would just have to try harder, be more obedient and grateful for my lot in life. It was the only thing that I could do, and I could not change what damage had already been done.

Quickly I finished rinsing off the wound and wrapped it in the pillow case from my bed. I knew better than to ask for a sterile dressing that I did not deserve.

Silently I wiped up any water on the floor and returned the first aid book to its original home, than tiptoed down the stairs to my room in the basement. Master had not returned from the store yet, but better safe than sorry. Besides, I had finished all of my other chores and Master didn't deserve to deal with seeing my miserable excuse for a being when he did.

Once in front of the door to my room I slid the bolt lock open and stepped inside. The lock could only be opened from the outside and was for use at the discretion of Master, I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he chose to use it tonight, after all, I deserved what I had gotten, and oh so much more.

The room that I called my own actually doubled as the utility room. After all, slaves did not have possessions of their own; for god's sake, they didn't even have rights to the body to which they played host.

The room was small, about 10 feet by 10 feet, and windowless. A single bare bulb hang in the middle of the room providing some much needed lighting. The cement floor was cold, ruff and even slightly damp beneath my bare feet.

The wall that contained the door was home to ceiling high shelving for household cleaners and other products. While the corner opposite the door was taken up by a stacking washer, and tumble dryer. A makeshift clothes line hung across the width of the room. Finally, against the wall farthest from the door set my bed.

Or at least, what I called my bed. It was comprised of two thin blankets that had certainly seen better days, one wool and one cotton. I had even been allowed the use of a foam pillow! A luxury almost unheard of for a slave, the pillow case from which was now wrapped firmly around my throbbing arm. Commonly I used the cotton to cover the ground on which I slept and would wrap my body in the wool one to the best of my ability.

Shuddering to think about some of the coldest nights I had endured within my prison, I wearily lowered myself to the ground and laid there until sleep finally took me an hour later. One final thought in my mind as I drifted off, how had I managed to end up with such a patient and forgiving Master?


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Note:**

So what has it been? A year? A little more? I recently received a comment on this story asking me to continue it and I will admit, I immediately thought, "Why the hell are people still reading that, it has obviously been abandoned?"

While that may have been my initial thought, that comment was just enough to get this story to worm its way back into my head. So, I have decided to revive it!

The main reason that I discontinued it in the first place was because I was at a tough point in my life, my depression was getting the best of me, and I actually even attempted suicide. However, that is all in the past, and I now feel like a completely different person. A person who is working to move past their mistakes, and move on. Furthermore, at the time when I first started this story, it brought back a lot of bad memories for me, memories of things that no child should have to endure. My abuser has since passed away, and I know feel like I can get on with everything and move past what was done to me. At the very least, this story can act as a general "Fuck You" in his direction to prove that people can get past their trauma, which will be happening as I do in fact have a happy ending planned for Dean.

This story has undergone some minor editing, but other than that I will be picking up exactly where I left off. So without farther yammering on from me, here is the continuation of Not Your Fault, But Mine:

* * *

**Chapter Two**

I spend the majority of the night tossing and turning, trying to find a sleeping position that will relieve some of the white hot pain from my arm. However, no matter what I do, the pain remains.

I estimate that it is roughly 3:00 am before I finally fall into a fitful sleep where dreams haunt me from every corner of my mind.

* * *

My stomach growls, reminding me of its current situation. As if I could forget, forget the fact that it has been so long since I had last had something in an attempt to end the always present hunger. It has gotten to the point where I can't even remember what it feels like to be fed, to not be constantly worrying about when and where my next meal is going to come from, let alone what it feels like to actually have something to stop the never ending hollow feeling that can constantly be felt in my stomach.

I have the whole starvation thing down to a science at this point. First come the cramps and growling, and when I still fail to provide my stomach with a source of food, it then continues to not only affect my belly but the rest of my body as well. By roughly the 12 hour mark I can count on having shaky limbs and light-headedness. It is all downhill after that: loss of concentration, balance and even my eyesight starts to be affected.

To think that not all that long ago I would have curled my lip and sneered at the breakfast usually offered to me, some scraps of toast and a glass of luke warm water. Right now I would do almost anything to have that food that I wasted when I first came to stay with Master.

Shakily, I stand up from where I had previously been crouched, scrubbing the hard wood floor and make my way into the dining room where Master is sat at the table, plinking away on his laptop. I make my way to his chair and drop to the floor beside him, without him even sparing a glance at me in acknowledgment.

"Umm, Ma-master? I just wanted to tell you h-how truly sorry I am. I didn't mean to spill the milk. It was just an a-accident. I pr-pr-promise that it will never happen again." I almost whisper to the person who can decide to continue to starve me for as long as he sees fit.

I remain kneeling at his feet in silence for what feels like an eternity and just when I am about to give up and return to my chores, he turns in his seat and fixes me with a glare that would cause babies to cry.

"An accident? That is what you are calling that little stunt that you pulled last night? You spilled the entire container of milk on the floor. Do you have any idea how hard I work to provide the food in that fridge? And then you go and throw it on the floor. I should have never taken your clumsy ass in, I should have just left you at the auction house for some pedophile to pick up. Someone not half as generous as myself. At least then you would understand that food doesn't just magically fall from the sky; that you have to earn your keep! Now, I have given it some thought and decided that you will go without food until such a time that I deem you have learned the value of it. So get your spoiled ass out of my sight before I decide that I am going to kick you out."

And with that he turns back to his computer and I ran back to the mop bucket with tears in my eyes and no food in my stomach.

* * *

Jerking up in bed, I slowly take in my surroundings. Sweat coats my body and I am still shaking frantically as I remind myself that it was only a dream, only a dream. Well, a dream created from a memory; but at least it is over.

That was the first of many times that Master made me go hungry in an attempt to teach me a lesson. I was young at the time, barely 9 years old. I was kept without food for three days, while not the longest I had ever been made to go without sustenance, it certainly does stand out. It truly had been an accident, I hadn't meant to spill the milk. I was little and I just didn't have the strength to carry the large carton of milk by myself. However, it still was my fault, if I had of poured the milk in the kitchen instead of trying to carry it to the table, or if I hadn't left everything till the last minute, none of it would have happened. I had no one to blame but myself, and I had paid the price in full for my stupidity. However, that never did stop me from making the same sorts of mistakes over and over again.

Still shaking, I lay back down and close my eyes. The images from the dream continue to play behind my eyelids for the next few hours, no matter how hard I try to block them out.

I never do fall back asleep, and before I know it I hear the tires of Master's truck hit the gravel driveway and speed towards the house. Silently I send a prayer out to the God I no longer believe in, "Please let him have forgiven me for the cigarettes, please."

Master's house is old, it was built in the early 1800s and the walls are thin and worn, so I have no trouble in hearing the commotion that is coming from the yard, even though I am not out there myself. Yelling and grunts make their way to my ears and have me standing up and walking from my nest on the floor in no time.

Quickly I make my way to the basement entrance of the house, just past the wood furnace that is never used to its full capacity. It is when I reach the door, that I almost faint at the sight I see.

Standing in the doorway is Master, and in his arms is a bundle. A very human like bundle, fighting against the arms holding it prisoner.

"Master, what have you done?"


End file.
